2006-09-23 @ 12:53 p.m.
So, you've probably been waiting for Tales from Frostingland, huh? Did you hear me arrive home last night? Oh me of door slamming and yelling? I've made a mistake. I hate the job. Two hours of inserting creme into eclairs. Three hours of pushing cream into canoles? Not even the sight of 67 pastry penises with powdered sugar could really cheer me up.
And I've been remembering with amazing clarity why I don't like working with women. They're mean. Especially the old ones. Men are much better. You can flirt with them. They roll over and want their bellies scratched. Women? "You're doing that wrong!" "You put that in the wrong place!" "You're making a mess!" The three comments? Guess what? If you had told me what to do, I probably wouldn't have done it wrong or put it in the wrong place or made a mess in the first place. Nobody is giving me any kind of training. Because showing me something I've never done before for 1.6 seconds is not training. Expecting me to know where 400 items are in a huge bakery area the next day? Not training. I can't even find my sneakers in a 500 square foot apartment. How do they expect me to be able to find two small prongs for the eclair creamer in a huge crowded bakery? Crowded with equipment. Crowded with workers. Crowded with product. People constantly coming up asking, "Can you write "Happy Birthday Hecklavusuvius!" on a cupcake.
And that's the other thing. I have done absolutely nothing creative. No cake decorating. No roses. No writing. Just squeezing creme into canoles. Over and over and over. I did provide one guy some moments of pleasure, as I was running my hand up and down the frosting bag and things were squirting out the tip. He just stood there watching, with his tongue practically lolling out sideways. Why did I suddenly feel like a hooker giving some wino a hand job?
Plus the job is far more strenuous than I anticipated. Hoisting huge vats of frosting. Stirring frosting with beaters bigger than Yugos. The first night I was in so much pain I could barely walk out to the car. And I'm not even exaggerating. My plantar fasciitis is in crisis mode. I even went to the internet to see what I could do for the pain short of amputation. They said you could rest your foot against some kind of frozen ice pack and it actually worked. My foot was a lot better the second day.
So far I've had no sense of accomplishment. I feel like everything I've done so far has been sloppy and I feel embarrassed. I'm used to being really good at what I do and suddenly I feel like Corky on "Life Goes On". I feel fat and dumpy in my uniform. I did jettison the fugly white bakery pants. And I also got rid of the white baseball cap in exchange for a black one, which isn't quite so dorky. I also had to take off all my silver bracelets, which I've been wearing on my wrist for 36 years. We can't wear jewelry. I also have to wear my hair in a ponytail and my hair is my best feature. I just feel fat and toady. Plus my shirt is too tight. The front counter probably think I'm a freak. I've already traded in my shirt three times.
And I've yet to let out the famous witty sense of humor. I've been too frustrated and upset. And haven't really found anything particularly funny to laugh about. We have two Bosnian chicks who talk Bosnian the whole time. Most of the women are chubby. There's only one girl, a cool Jewish chick who wears a beret, who might be someone I could commiserate with.
But coming home tonight I felt so upset, that when I could hear clippy boy out clipping bushes after 10 p.m. (yes, you read that right), I just exploded in anger and slammed all the doors in my apartment and started screaming. It wasn't pretty. I was just frustrated and upset that I quit a job I liked, where everyone liked me for a job, that I hate so far and nobody likes me. And I kinda have PMS. And then my mom called during all this and I was weeping and crying and screaming and saying "I'm having a nervous breakdown" in case it wasn't obvious.
I tell you, I just really need to win the lottery so I can say FUCK YOU to all that bothers me. FREAKY ASS ANNOYING NEIGHBORS. Difficult jobs. Tiny apartments. I'm a nice person. I have good karma. I have no idea what I have done to bring this upon myself. I mean...WTF? GO.AWAY!!!!! You win. Pass Go. Collect $200. Just leave me the fuck alone.
I had the strangest experience in my art class. Charlemagne was hosting and I was sitting way across the room. I couldn't even see him because the Nazi Model, with her huge tree trunk legs, was blocking my view of him. He was yacking as usual. And suddenly, rather incredibly, the name of the guy that "A" suggested that I meet comes floating over. And I'm like, why oh why is Charlemagne saying the same name as "A" did 24 hours earlier. This is way too coincidental. And since I'm a fan of conspiracy theories...
Anyhoo, so after class Charlemagne brightly said, "Oh, by the way, *Handyman (*fake blog name) is coming over for a dinner party this weekend. Why don't you come over?"
Okay, so can we see how this whole thing is playing out? "A" finds me a guy. And then passes it off to Charlemagne who randomly says it loud enough for me to hear. (although "A" has denied talking to Charlemagne, after I shot off a somewhat terse e-mail to him). I then ask him about it. And then wow, he's like having a dinner party with...you guessed it...my possible future honey bunny. Am I being paranoid, or is that all a little too convenient? I sorta feel like Jim Carrey in "The Truman Show" with Ed Harris up in a control booth saying, "Ok, cue the actor who is going to play witty's love interest."
So I don't know what to think. I'm all confused about many things. I'm crying a lot. I'm afraid to leave my front door. My foot hurts. And Charlemagne continues to confound....like when he was talking to those young girls the other night and I made a joke going, "blah, blah, blah" over my shoulder and he came running over, scooped me in his arms in a passionate embrace and kissed me on the lips. I was too startled to react. And frankly French Boy, I didn't turn my lips towards yours. It was more vicey versey.
Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty